


You Were a Kindness

by the_authors_exploits



Series: Strangers in Nothing but Name [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), DCU (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Alternate Universe- Crossover, Angst, Crossover, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, catatonic!jason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:08:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3972178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_authors_exploits/pseuds/the_authors_exploits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when things get easier, they have a tendency to get complicated</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by and title from the song of the same name by The National.
> 
> This was originally going to be a oneshot, but at the moment I have 9K written and it changes tone 3 times so....a three chaptered story it shall be!

To be fair, it didn’t know what kindness was until it pulled Captain America from the water all those weeks ago. It wasn’t even sure if kindness was the correct adjective, but the word seemed correct so it used that. That was the only guess the asset could have towards why it would suddenly plunge into the cool water to save its assignment—kindness.

It had a lot to learn about these…feelings it kept experiencing. It wasn’t sure if this was correct or if it should seek out a handler to fix its malfunctions, but…it was…curious?

-X-

It learned that kindness was not fixated to only Captain America; kindness seemed to also be drawn to the boy it almost ran over with its stolen car on Highway 34. The time was two past three in the morning and this was a backroad that was hardly used, so much so that the street lights flickered occasionally and some lightbulbs were even burnt out.

The boy came from the ditch, scrambling up in a dirty suit, and completely unsteady on his feet; he kept his arms close to his body but stumbled and tilted and the asset used its fast reflexes to hit the brakes, twist the steering wheel to the side, and avoid a collision with the body. And then kindness turned itself on.

So the asset stepped out of the car after putting it in park, its boot splashing into a rain puddle. The day had been stormy, but was clearing during the night. Still, the ground was wet and that explained the mud clinging to the ashen boy’s clothes, hair, face. The asset took a step forward and tried to think of something to say.

“Are you harmed?” its voice was hoarse with disuse, but if the kid noticed he made no indication. In fact, he had no reaction to almost being run over; he merrily shivered and rubbed at his arms for warmth. The boy looked hurt, his clothing torn, and his hands were bleeding—his nails were torn away, missing, as if he had been tortured. “Kid?”

Still, no response, and the asset decided this was pointless and to continue with its mission; back to the car, ignoring plugging the seatbelt in, and it put the car in drive—only for a new feeling to come. Something slimy and uncomfortable (later it would learn the emotion was guilt); so out of the car and it approached the boy again. He couldn’t be any more than fifteen, at best, and seemed particularly strange to be wandering through a backwoods road in a fancy suit with no supervision.

“Kid? Kid, where do you live?”

Still no response; the boy stared vacantly at the asset, hollow horrified green eyes roving over every inch as if trying to categorize and memorize but something was going wrong in his head. He wasn’t processing what he was seeing to memory, or so the situation appeared to be. He kept looking at every inch of the asset’s face, as if everything was new each time. The asset recognized the vacant gaze of an obedient little soldier from itself.

“Kid.” So, a quick look around to assure no one was actually looking for the boy, the asset tugged the child forward. “Come.”

The child obeyed like the asset surmised he would and it corralled the boy into the car, buckled him in, and lay one of its stolen jackets over the cold boy. Kindness was warm; the asset found it liked this feeling.

-X-

It told itself it would drop the boy off at the soonest convenience, yet something ached in his chest when he thought of the passenger seat being empty. Not even three hours with the quiet being in its company and the asset was breaking further—attachment. The handlers would have a lot of fixing to do when they got their merchandise back; that thought made the asset’s throat hurt as if it had been screaming, made its heart race, and it decided maybe it would be good to break further.

So far, none of these cracks in its dependable programming had harmed it; in fact, it thought glancing at the sleeping child, the cracks made it feel better…

-X-

Getting a hotel room at six in the morning was easy; it gave a fake name (James Rogers, it sounded legit), pretended to be a weary traveler with its trouble maker of a younger brother in the car, and guided the boy into the small room with little trouble. The boy was still in soaking wet clothes and the asset knew enough about human needs to know the child needed to be warm.

It shoved a fluffy towel from the linen closet in the boy’s arms and directed him into the bathroom. “Warm water; clean.” It paused long enough to make sure the boy began to strip before leaving the room to find the boy some new clothes.

A quick trip to ___ and it returned with two bags of one outfit: a pair of dark jeans, a dark red shirt with a pull over black hoodie, socks and underwear, and a pair of combat boots that the asset guessed would fit. The boy was still in the shower when it checked on him, standing in the steam filled room and watching the now clean water drain away; there were many dark bruises littering the thin frame, what looked to be still healing burns on his shoulders, and if it could feel sick it would feel so now. However, it could not and instead dealt with the scene in a practical manner, storing the information aside for a later time to retrieve painkillers. The asset smelled no soap from the boy and reached around the curtain to pluck the soap bar from the built in shelf and hand it over.

“Clean; with soap.” While the mud and grime was physically gone, the germs were still present and, if mud was similar to blood, the boy probably still felt the dirt on his skin. The asset put the grocery bags on the floor by the toilet. “Clothes; dress after.”

And it left the boy there; ten minutes later, he came out dressed in the clothes. They fit well, though both the shirt and the jeans were a bit loose, but the asset felt that it had succeeded in its side mission. The boy stood there before the bed, auburn hair dripping, and they stood at a standstill. The boy clutched to the white towel and eventually thrust it towards the asset. It gazed at the towel, attempting to assess what was needed, and the boy took a step forward. The asset watched the young face and tentatively reached out to take the towel. The boy released the piece of cloth immediately, and the asset pulled on the boy’s shoulder; he took the hint and sat on the edge of the bed, the asset kneeling behind him to rub the towel against the wet hair.

The boy was very compliant and didn’t move even though the asset thought it might be rubbing a bit too vigorously; it felt something familiar in the way it was caring for this boy, as if it had cared for someone before. Someone with blond hair and pale face and a wicked fever, horrible wheezing sounds coming from his chest as he shivered beneath the only quilt they owned.

The boy let out a short, quiet cry and the asset pulled away.

“Are you harmed?”

The boy, however, said nothing and the asset smoothed the boy’s now drier hair down, assuming the kid had been telling it that its job was complete. The asset had the pretense to hand the remote to the kid before going to clean the bathroom and possibly take its own shower; it had already checked the perimeter for safety reasons, had already made sure the car was stashed, prepared a plan for the day (sleep, it had learned, was necessary apparently, as was food). It pondered dropping the kid at a police station, but then that empty ache returned to its chest and it decided against that choice. Especially when it returned from its shower to find the boy dozing, arms folded delicately over his abdomen, with Tom and Jerry playing on tv.

The boy was innocent, a quiet companion, a vulnerable child; the asset figured he would be safer with the Winter Soldier than in a foster home. And if there would be no APBs or Amber Alert for the kid, then the asset would keep the child; he was the only person who didn’t know the asset as “Bucky” Barnes or the Winter Soldier and the thought felt…refreshing…

-X-

When the asset woke up an hour later, the child was ill. He was sleeping on the other bed, face flushed and breathing a bit labored, tossing and turning. Somehow, in its mind, it could hear something saying _medicine_ so when it went out to gather food from the corner gas station it also picked some medicine. It didn’t think, too overwhelmed by the choices, only reacted on instinct and chose an old type of medicine without a second thought.

Back at the hotel, the boy was still sleeping but the asset knew that food and medicine should be top priority; as with any other sort of wound, tending to it when possible was important. And right now was a good time to deal with this illness. So it did what it figured was good and threw the covers off the body to cuff him on the shoulder, around the head.

“Up.” Is what it said, but the boy’s reaction was not what it expected. He awoke with a loud gasp and scurried across the bed, falling to the floor with a surprised and scared cry. The asset frowned; it had never reacted that way when its handlers had treated it as such. But perhaps this boy was used to something different; the asset had to adapt. “Uh, medicine. You’re sick.”

The boy’s wide eyes folded to their relaxed, glossy state when no immediate danger was recognized; the asset put the warmed burrito it had procured at the gas station on the bed for the boy and measured out the appropriate amount of medication, setting the cap on the nightstand for later.

They ate in quiet, the asset planning and the boy watching television. The asset was planning on travelling, learning of the world it had caused destruction in, learning of itself… Learning of mankind, of feelings, needs, wants, perhaps finding itself somewhere. So it planned its next move.

It was knocked from its thoughts when the bed dipped and a small body tentatively crawled towards it; the asset had been surprised a few times in its missions, and it was feeling surprise now as the kid crawled closer, nearly into its lap, unabashed and unafraid. Its prosthetic arm, still (now always) hidden by a long sleeve shirt and a black leather glove, was shifted without its consent for the boy’s comfort, laying limp over the thin shoulders.

There, the kid curled up in comfort and the asset learned something new, as it brushed its gloved thumb over the boy’s pulse line on his throat. It knew, with a simple flick of its wrists, the boy would never breathe again, but with gentle motions the boy was eased into sleep.

Tenderness had a very similar warmth to kindness; the asset wondered if they went hand in hand.

-X-

“My name…” it would whisper at night. “Is Bucky Barnes.”

It would repeat that until the wee hours of the morning, when its charge would begin to slip into consciousness and it would lapse into a silence. Vulnerability shown in front of others was a grave weakness, and though the kid had yet to portray intent to harm, or the ability to, the asset—Bucky, wouldn’t take that chance.

But when the kid slept, Bucky would repeat its mantra; the phrase had to stick. It was Bucky Barnes; it fought in a World War with Captain America, Steve Rogers, its once-best friend. It had been kind and caring and scared, it had been a good sniper (even as the Winter Soldier), it had fought Hydra… It wanted to fight Hydra again.

Eventually, at a seedy motel, once the name stuck and it realized that identity was liberating, it sat the boy down on one bed and took a seat on the other; the boy was still as quiet as ever, as blank faced as ever, but that didn’t deter Bucky.

It took a breath, rubbed its hands together, and tried to keep the flickering gaze before him. “My name is James Buchanan Barnes, nicknamed Bucky by my best friend Steve Rogers. I fought in World War II against Hydra, I’m a sniper, and I like dogs.” Another deep breath; the boy’s eyes flitted somewhere over its shoulder. This was pointless; the kid couldn’t hold a conversation, yet it made Bucky feel better to vocalize and tell someone that…that it was getting better. It tapped the boy’s knee to get his attention. Pointless, again. “And you have a name too; wish I could ask you what it is. I guess I’ll just call you Kiddo then.”

Bucky knew what it was like to be given a name, an identity, that was not one’s own; it wouldn’t have anyone else be reduced to a new title. Never again. But a nickname? Nicknames were okay.

-X-

It was a he; he had a gender and a name. A two months past finding the kid, the asset had come to terms with many things. He was a male, his name was James “Bucky” Barnes, and he would never be controlled again. He was nice, at one point in time, and was slowly coming to terms with the hope that his kills as Winter Soldier were not on his hands, but his once-handlers; that he could still be nice and kind.

Behind him, Kiddo shifted and whined; they were sharing a hotel bed, it being the only room vacant (though it wasn’t as if they didn’t already frequently seek each other out due to nightmares), and while it was too early for the kid to be awake, Bucky was. He turned to assess the boy’s well-being, but he seemed to only be shifting in his sleep so Bucky turned back to stare out the open window blinds, to watch the slowly rising sun.

Bucky felt warm, but it wasn’t just the sunshine. It was the body at his back, the wonderful feeling of companionship and identity. He slipped back under the covers and Kiddo rolled close, sighing in contentment.

-X-

“Pick some stuff out, Kiddo; s’getting cold out.” Bucky pushed a hanging shirt aside, checked the price tag on the second one, and moved on. Good Will was a good place to shop; second hand clothes, not that suspicious to pay in wads of cash, easy to blend in with the crowds…

Kiddo was a few racks away, looking at the used sweaters and jackets that were in his size. For being a half-zombie, he could be quite aware at times. Bucky glanced at him every now and then, keeping an eye on his charge, making sure he was alright and not being bothered by some of the patrons. Bucky pushed his long hair from his face and pulled a faded cream colored shirt from the hanger and tossed it in the basket he was carrying. He moved down the way to the jeans folded and tossed around in a large cardboard container.

Kiddo made a strangled sound and was suddenly at Bucky’s side, tugging on his shirtsleeve and the boy’s arms were flapping around. Bucky’s first thought was _danger_ but a quick adrenaline filled sweep of the area revealed nothing to be worried about, so he followed Kiddo’s pulling to the jacket rack. The teenager led him to a black piece of clothing and went from tugging Bucky’s shirt to tugging the sweater with vigor.

“Ehhmmmnnn,” the boy whined and his tuggings grew incessant.

Bucky pulled the clothing out from its place and looked it over; the sleeve cuffs were frayed, the tie for the hood was missing, but the Batman symbol on the back was in near perfect condition. It was bright yellow, shiny, with a gray outline and was spread big across the shoulder and back of the jacket. Bucky looked at Kiddo; the green eyes were fixated on the symbol and his fingers brushed softly against the cloth.

“You want this one, Kiddo?” The boy didn’t say anything, but Bucky knew. He could tell. “Alright.” So he put the jacket with his shirt in the basket and they both moved on to find more clothing.

Bucky was no longer in soldier mode, as he had been when he called himself ‘it’ or ‘asset’, so the necessities were now conveniences; clothing wasn’t one outfit for ease of flight, but rather multiple outfits for personal comfort. Especially with a young teenage boy with him; it was good for mental health, or so Bucky had read on a computer at a library, that material objects were good to aid in therapy. So outfits it would be.

After they checked out, Kiddo immediately dug through the bag and tugged the Batman sweater on; he relaxed immediately into the seat of the (once again) stolen vehicle and closed his eyes, sighing. Complete trust and relaxation and bliss rolled off him and Bucky tussled his hair gently.

“Happy, Kiddo?”

Happiness, Bucky had learned, was warmer than kindness; happiness was warmth all the way to his fingertips (even his not-arm, his not-hand), was something like a cloud in his stomach, something freeing in his chest… Happiness was good.

-X-

Fear was the opposite of happiness and sad to say Bucky experienced fear a lot; nightmares. Fear was cold and gripping and paralyzing. It instilled in the ex-asset something akin to paranoia and he frequently would find himself sitting up in the middle of the night—or at whatever godforsaken time the pair found a chance to sleep—gun in his hand and eyes roving over the room, ears listening to everything and anything, waiting for the footsteps of a Hydra agent coming for him. Most of the time, Kiddo’s breathing would be the only response, occasionally the creaking of whatever hotel they were staying in or the sound of cars when they slept on the side of a highway in their parked car.

There were nights, however, when Bucky could sleep well and it would be the kid who had the nightmares. Bucky, hearing enhanced by the serum Hydra had given him, would awake to the rapid breathing of his companion. He would lie there and wait until the thrashing would start; the boy would start gasping, horrid shallow breaths like something akin to asthma but with more panic infused in it, and the first time this happened Bucky hadn’t known what to do. He had waited, but that’s when the screaming had started so Bucky now knew to interject before the screaming could start.

Tonight was no different; the boy began to whine, breathing heavily, and then to twitch. Began to slash at the air as if to keep an attack away and Bucky was moving across the small space between their beds; he eased himself to the mattress and shook the boy’s shoulder.

“Kiddo, Kiddo; wake up. It’s ok, just a nightmare. Come on, you’re alright. Wakey, wakey, Kiddo.”

A sucking gasp and the green eyes flew open; it was sad that during these moments the boy’s eyes were the most clear. Fear shouldn’t ever cause such clarity, such liveliness to return to those green eyes. But it did and Bucky had to deal with it.

“Hey, there, Kiddo; we’re in a hotel. In Colorado. Remember? We’re on a road trip; I’m Bucky, you’re Kiddo, we’re on a nice little road trip.”

Eventually the fear would subside and the boy would drift back to sleep, go back to drooling on his pillow, and Bucky would turn back to bed. These sort of nights were hard, and sometimes Kiddo’s terrors were silent ones (Bucky wondered if those were worse or not) and instead of Bucky going to Kiddo, the boy would go to him. Bucky would awake to him standing by his bedside, arms wrapped around himself, and Bucky would lift the blankets. The boy would slip in, shivering, and Bucky would tenderly (tender was kindness and Bucky was kind) run his fingers over Kiddo’s back.

Fear was terrible; fear wasn’t as bad when there was someone to comfort you.

-X-

By the time Bucky returned to Steve, the kid had grown four inches and reached to Bucky’s shoulder now. The kid had always been scrawny, since Bucky had picked him up, but numerous gas store burritos and other fast food lunches later, the kid had put on weight and height. Steve was incredibly shocked to find not only his long lost best friend on Stark’s tower’s doorstep, but also a young redhead trailing after Bucky.

Steve was caught between curiosity of the boy and wanting to catch up with his old friend; Bucky was observant. He settled the boy in Steve’s spacious living room on the floor Tony had designed specifically for the soldier, handing the kid the remote to the television and tugging the zipper up on his Batman hoodie.

“You keep the air conditioning too high,” Bucky had murmured to Steve, almost sensing his questions. “Kid’ll get sick.”

Then the older men had retreated to the kitchen to discuss things; it was awkward at first, but the awkwardness melted away to something akin to familiarity. Bucky spoke of the things he remembered, from the time with a scrawny troublemaker of Steve Rogers to the train; after that, he decided to keep to himself—the moments he had begun to remember, when he was a puppet of Hydra. At least until they were both more stable would Bucky keep these secrets. Steve was attentive and gentle and didn’t prod at what Bucky didn’t want to share, though he was certain to express that whatever the Winter Soldier had done it would not tarnish who Bucky was. Eventually, they were too emotionally exhausted to continue in their reverie and Steve switched topics.

“So,” he tapped his fingers against his coffee cup. “The boy?”

So Bucky told him; how he had nearly run the kid over, how the boy was in a near zombie state, only understanding the simplest forms of orders such as “eat, bathe, sleep”, but also being competent enough to handle a tv remote or the dials on the car radio.

“Won’t talk; hasn’t talked in the seven months I’ve had him.” Bucky peeled the leather glove off his not-arm; in a way, it was a test but Steve didn’t flinch so Bucky viewed that as a win. “Don’t know his name; I mostly just call him Kiddo.”

Steve nodded, but seemed to be debating about something. “Um, Buck, you know he’s someone’s kid right? That there’s probably a mom really worried about him, yeah?”

Bucky shrugged. “I did my research; no amber alert, no police report of a missing kid matching his description. Whoever he is…” He stared into the cooled liquid in his cup. “No one’s missing him.”

“That’s not true!” Steve’s eyes were wide in horror; someone would be missing him. Someone had to be. “Where did you pick him up?”

“On the coast of New York, near the bridge to Gotham.” Bucky shrugged again, but stiffened as he heard the tell-tale shuffle of feet. “He’s coming.”

Sure enough, the boy shuffled around the corner and meandered his way to Bucky’s side; he leaned forward and Bucky understand. He’d learned all of the boy’s tells in the months on the road, so he calmly gripped the boy’s wrist, pulled a kitchen chair closer to his own, and tugged the kid to sit. Once the boy was settled, Bucky answered Steve’s questioning stare.

“He got scared; must be ‘cause it’s a new place. He has some aware moments; must’ve freaked some with the new scenery. Happened a few times at the hotels… Right, Kiddo?”

Of course, there was no answer; Steve watched the pair, assessing.

“Bucky, we can’t keep him; we’ve got to give him to the authorities. They can find who he belongs to.”

Bucky’s gaze was sharp, angry. “He doesn’t belong to anyone! He’s a human being, like me, human beings aren’t belongings!”

“That’s not what I meant.” Steve spoke quietly, calmly, treading carefully; the Winter Soldier had been a belonging. “I just mean he’s someone’s kid; they have to be hurting without him.”

The metal thumb brushed delicately against the boy’s wrist, and Kiddo’s attention was enraptured with the cool touch; Bucky spoke hesitantly. “I… I’m not giving him to a foster home. I’m not handing him over to juvie or to a nut house while they look for his family. He’s just a kid, Steve; he’s not even sixteen yet!”

“You can’t know that for sure…”

“You’re with the Avengers, right? So aren’t you technically an authority?” Bucky looked hopeful; hope, he had learned, could be a very painful feeling. But Bucky had also learned that cunningness was a good trait to get his point across; with hope in his heart, he was cunning with his words. “Can’t you have your team search for his family? Look, I don’t trust anyone with Kiddo. He needs to be cared for and needs lots of patience; he’s not always the quickest to react or the easiest to understand. I’ve been with him for months, I’ve learned a lot about him, I can take care of him perfectly fine. Come on, Steve; you can do something, can’t you?”

And Steve could never turn away someone in need, let alone say no to Bucky. So he nodded in acceptance; he will help. He will do something.


	2. A Middle; and Yet a New Beginning

They only speak with Tony about the issue, hoping that his connections can aid them in their search of the kid’s family. He enlists the help of Bruce in collecting a DNA sample and searching through JARVIS’s massive database for any matches.

Of course, if Tony knows something he tells Pepper; if he tells Pepper, he’ll go tell everyone. So when Steve is out doing Captain America things with the Hulk (Bucky has yet to agree to join the hero business; he’s still learning about himself so he stays in the Avenger Tower), there’s a sharp knock on the doorway and Bucky answers it to find Clint and Natasha. Natasha, alone, is determined; her and Clint together? They are unstoppable. So Bucky doesn’t try and turn them away, though he knows he could, even when the first thing Nat says is “where’s the kid” and, yeah, so Bucky feels a little threatened—they are Steve’s friends, so therefore Bucky should be…civil, but they are speaking of Bucky’s companion and he might be the least bit protective.

“Living room; I was reading to him. Come on.” He leads the way. “No sudden movements, and don’t crowd him. Stay on the other side of the room ‘til he gets used to you, if you know what’s good for you.”

Kiddo can hold his own when he feels threatened, as shown by the bruises he left on Tony’s ribs when Tony got too close. Bucky felt rather proud at that display, for whatever reason.

Clint and Natasha listen to him and take a seat on the loveseat across from the armchair the auburn haired boy was sat in. The boy was curled comfortably with a book in his hands; he spared the new comers a quick glance, but then returned to flipping through the book in his hands. Bucky approached him, held his hand out (Natasha took note of the casual tshirt Bucky was wearing, the lack of glove on his metal hand, the comfort he was indulging in), but the boy refused to give back the book so Bucky took a seat on the couch.

“So, uhh,” he sniffed. “This is Kiddo. Found him on a back road, been with me for a while, yadda yadda…”

Clint nodded and Natasha watched the kid with calculating eyes; however, neither pried into their past, asking questions about the search for the kid’s parent or why Bucky was so incessant on keeping him. Instead Clint made peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, Natasha talked with Bucky about Tolstoy, and Kiddo eventually warmed up to the company—so much so, he handed the book to Natasha for her to read to him.

Bucky supposed it would be alright to let them near his charge.

-X-

“Kiddo’s in the next room.”

“He’s sleep,” Steve brushed his knuckles against Bucky’s cheek, memorizing his face. “We put him to bed an hour ago.”

Bucky shrugged, stared at a point somewhere over Steve’s shoulder. “Yeah, but what if he wakes up?”

They were lying in Steve’s king sized bed, having a moment of intimacy that they hadn’t shared in ages.

“Well,” Steve buried his face in Bucky’s neck to give soft kisses to his pulse line. “Then we put him to bed again.”

Bucky said nothing for a moment; Steve got braver, moving his hand further down Bucky’s chest, lifting his shirt hem and slipping his hand in. Bucky was alright with kisses, cuddles, certain touches; others, however, he hadn’t quiet warmed up to yet. He still didn’t much like human touch; 70 years of brainwashing and torture would do that to you.

So he firmly placed his hands on Steve’s shoulders and shoved—not hard, but hard enough to get his message across. So Steve pulled away; he stopped his movements and ministrations and gave his partner room to breathe.

“Buck?”

“I…” Bucky swallowed; there were other hands, at one point, unkind and uncaring. “I’m ok.” These weren’t those hands, but the memories were bitter and hateful; memories of electricity crackling and the taste of blood in his mouth.

And Steve was patient and understanding and kind and everything those memories weren’t. He gently lay next to Bucky on the mattress, placing an arm around his waist—“is this ok?”—and let the night envelope them in its dark embrace.

Love, Bucky was learning, was a softer kindness and much warmer than happiness, something deep and soft and warm and good smelling; something he was experiencing with someone he cared about very deeply, so much so his ‘programming’ had broken from the very beginning.

-X-

Bucky accepted the invitation to have dinner with Steve, on the condition they took Kiddo with them. For whatever reason. Steve allowed it and they went to a very nice restaurant; except all three were in casual jeans and shirts. But, as Captain America, it was easy to get away with… Well, a lot of things.

“So I was thinking about you maybe going out with Natasha and Clint on a mission later on this week.”

Bucky shrugged noncommittally and stabbed at the lettuce on his plate; to the left of him, Kiddo contentedly chomped on his own salad appetizer. “We’ll see; someone’s gotta take care of the kid, right?”

“Yeah; that’s why I wouldn’t be going. I can take care of him.”

Bucky grinned. “Yeah, ok, what’s his tell for being hungry?”

Steve blank faced, but before Bucky could say anything Steve offered, “Nonstop tugging on your sleeve?”

Bucky chuckled. “Close; he’ll starve if he’s left with you, pipsqueak.”

Steve good naturedly shook his head and grinned. “A short mission; maybe ten hours, and you’ll be back to tuck Kiddo in. Maybe read him a bed time story.”

The main course arrived; each one had a nice steak and Bucky carefully kept an eye on Kiddo as the boy put the sharp cutting knife to good use. But he seemed to be handling himself well so Bucky took a bite from his meal.

“I don’t know, Steve. I don’t even know what I would call myself.”

“You don’t need a name, but I think it would be good for you. To get out of the tower, out there, kicking some butt.”

Bucky sighed. “If I say I’ll think about it, will you let me eat my steak in peace?”

Steve laughed, but relented and they switched to more casual topics. Near the end of the dinner date, once they were nibbling on the last bite of triple chocolate cake, the pair became aware of a calculating gaze on them. They didn’t say anything to the other person, but both calmly gazed about the room. Prolonged looks weren’t uncommon (it was Captain America and Bucky Barnes with a goddamn metal arm), but this felt threatening somehow.

Steve saw the man first; he was extravagant, decked out in a high end suite with a full gray beard and suspicious beady eyes. His fingers were covered in rings—gold and silver, inlayed with rubies and emeralds. He was powerful and flanked by at least four bodyguards; Steve didn’t know when he entered the restaurant, but he had at one point in time and now he seemed to have a keen interest in the trio.

Before Steve could point him out to Bucky, the man was up and across the room in an instant.

“Jason?” The man’s voice held a foreign accent that neither could pinpoint, his brows were bushy and gray, and his eyes were only trained on the young boy.

Bucky gripped the back of Kiddo’s chair with his not-arm, effectively creating a threatening barrier between his unresponsive charge and the strange man. “Can we help you?”

Steve deliberately tried to not notice the way Bucky seemed to smoothly use his arm to his advantage; whether it be intimidating fans of the Avengers, or specifically Captain America, when they were out in public or, as right now, in a stance of protectiveness. Steve found it oddly attractive, but at the same time wanted to dislike it—the arm was from Hydra, yet it was a part of Bucky and Steve could never hate Bucky.

The stranger turned his gaze from the boy to Bucky and Steve stayed quiet, assessing the situation with ease. “Ah, no. My sincerest apologies; I mistook your child as a boy I once knew. Silly me, the child I knew died some time ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve spoke. “That must have been hard.”

The man shot a quick glance at the boy again before analyzing Captain America. “Yes; pardon me again, I have not appropriately introduced myself. I am Ra’s Al Ghul; perhaps you have heard of me.”

Bucky shook his head dumbly; he hadn’t removed the barrier he had created and turned his attention to his charge, coaxing him to drink some water, effectively signaling he was done talking with the stranger. Steve, however, had manners and stood to shake Ra’s’ hand.

“A pleasure, Ra’s. I’m Steve, this is Bucky, and Kiddo. Are you here on business?”

“Yes; actually, I should be leaving. I have an early meeting in the morning. Good night, sirs; I apologize for the inconvenience I brought upon you.”

“Oh, alright; good evening.”

And the man glided away with his body guards shadowing closely near him.

-X-

“You met Ra’s and you didn’t tell me?”

Steve could tell Bucky found Tony’s reaction incredibly humorous and if Steve didn’t know any better he’d think Tony would be pulling his own hair out in a few minutes. “Yeah, at dinner the other night when we were out. He’s a strange man.”

“Of course he’s a strange man! He lives in some reclusive mountain side villa with his plethora of trained ninja assassins and rude daughter—”

“Rude because she didn’t flirt with you or…?”

Natasha snorted at that, disturbing the child using her lap as a pillow; that was the majority of the child’s sad life. Eat, sleep, watch tv, be read to, sleep more, eat, sleep more… But he seemed content enough to, and Natasha said the monotonous cycle of resting might be a result of some intense trauma that he was obviously mentally (and physically) recovering from.

Bucky gave her a small frown at having woken the child, but was compliant when Kiddo went from resting on Natasha to resting on Bucky on the other side of the couch. Tony hadn’t stopped in his rant.

“—and he’s also a sleezy old business man! He almost tricked me out of two million dollars!”

“How?”

“Stocks, Steve, stocks though I never could find solid proof; he’s a manipulative old man. Stay away from him! Away!”

“Theatrics, Tony.” Natasha reprimanded; she turned a page in her book.

“No! I get a bad vibe from him! He is strange!”

“I did too.” Bucky brushed some hair from Kiddo’s face; the boy blinked at the television that was playing quietly, a noise filter filling the background. He nor Steve really paid much attention to the hi-def piece of machinery, but Kiddo seemed to enjoy it and they did like to keep up with modern day politics so they played it softly. “He thought he knew Kiddo but then said he mistook him for someone who’d died. I don’t know, but I don’t like him.”

Tony sniffed and looked away. “Yeah, uh, well; I say stay away from him…” With that, the billionaire collapsed in an armchair; Steve turned towards the kitchen.

“So, are you two staying for dinner?”

Natasha shook her head, marked her place in her book, and stood from the couch. “Clint said he’d make dinner tonight.”

“Oh, a date, Miss Romanov?”

Natasha bonked Tony on the head on her way to the front door. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Bucky and Steve waved her goodbye and then Steve asked Bucky to help make sandwiches in the kitchen; so Bucky eased Kiddo from his lap to the couch and followed his friend into the kitchen.

“Will we be putting carrots and celery in the tuna?”

Steve shook his head and accepted the metal mixing bowl from Bucky. “Nahh, Kiddo just picks them out anyway.”

Bucky nodded; he gathered mayonnaise from the fridge, some cans of tuna from the cupboard, and then went about setting out lettuce and plates and slices of bread.

They had been working calmly for a good ten minutes in calm silence when a harsh yell and loud series of crashes was heard from the living room. Bucky didn’t waste any time; he was out of the room with the sharp cleaver that had been in the knife block moments ago, arriving in the living room with a determined look on his face. Steve was only a few steps behind him and the scene they met was more disastrous than dangerous.

The most noticeable disaster wasn’t the broken glass table, but rather the television that was lying on the floor, cracked and frozen on a hazy picture of a…clown? Bucky couldn’t be sure so he handed the cleaver to Steve and hurried to Kiddo’s side. The boy was curled in the corner of the room, whimpering and muttering wordlessly to himself; he looked like he might’ve hurt his hands some, if the way he was cradling them to his chest was any indication, and he rocked back and forth repeatedly. Steve turned to Tony, who was standing wide-eyed by the armchair.

“What happened?”

Tony turned his gaze from the boy to Captain America; he swallowed thickly and ran a hand through his spikey hair. “Umm, uh, well, there was a… Uh, a… news story on, umm, something going on in Gotham so; another breakout in Arkham and I guess it, uh, upset Kiddo there…”

In the corner, Bucky was trying to calm his charge—not unlike after a nightmare when the boy would, still, seek out his protector. “Hey, hey; hey, buddy.” Bucky knelt down before the boy, not too close to be a threat, but enough for the boy to know his presence. “What’s going on, hm?”

The boy kept muttering and rocking so Bucky settled where he was; he ignored Tony and Steve talking quietly and cleaning up in the background. Instead he steadily watched his charge. Eventually, the boy moved his arms and showed his face; his cheeks were red, eyes bloodshot, but he hadn’t been crying and, instead of some form of awareness Bucky was expecting, Kiddo looked even more vacant than before.

“Hi,” Bucky smiled softly. “Hey, you okay?”

Of course, there was no reply, but it did coax the boy to slip forward closer to his guardian.

“Hi; I’m sorry you got upset. Come here.” Bucky opened his arms wide and the sun caught on his metal arm. Immediately the boy drew closer and allowed Bucky to wrap him in a warm, caring, strong cuddle. The man patted his charge’s shoulder and rocked gently. “There, there; it’s alright, shh, it’s ok…”

Kiddo’s trembling stopped shortly, but he refused to watch television for a while and even more so took up the newspaper as reading material.

-X-

Tony knew a lot of things; Tony had a lot of secrets; Tony was guilty of a lot of things; Tony knew a lot of things.

Like how he knew who delivered the nasty bump to Pepper’s head and how he knew exactly how Bucky would react when he returned home to find ninjas having kidnapped his kid.

Granted, it wasn’t his kid; another thing Tony was guilty of. He knew who the kid was, he knew whose kid it was, but he also knew that nothing would make this a good or happy ending. So he made it yet another secret—one that was about to get out now.

Steve was supposed to have been watching Kiddo while Bucky went out on a mission with Nat and Barton; a simple mission, just cover an ambassador during a parade, real simple. But then Steve had been called away to settle a diplomatic issue with said ambassador and that left Kiddo in Pepper’s hands. (Tony refused to watch the kid, and had refused his lab buddy Bruce to go keep the boy company).

However, that seemed to have been a bad thing to do, as now Pepper was nursing a concussion and the kid was missing. MIA, KO, APB, and whatever else might come to mind—and, in a way, Tony knew it was his fault.

He knew as soon as Ra’s made an appearance things would turn south and—the door to the apartment swung open—they just did.

“What about Shadowman?”

Bucky chuckled at Natasha’s offer. “I don’t think so…”

“Too dark? See, I was thinking something like Metaller!”

Natasha whapped the archer over the head. “That’s just a stupid name.”

When they took in the scene before them, even Steve stopped smiling. The glass coffee table was shattered, the couch (that Tony was trying to casually sit on) was ripped to shreds, and the window Bruce was currently studying had a gaping hole in it. Tony had only seen Bucky be furious a few times, mostly incorporating Steve having done something incredibly stupid (fighting aliens, Steve, with a shield? Jumping out a plane without a parachute!); he liked to call it Anger Mode. It was simultaneously entertaining and terrifying and it included Bucky yelling or talking quite calmly, but either way it was utterly menacing with his fists clenched tight and his jaw set and his eyes as cold as ice.

And Anger Mode was indeed in effect right now.

His first question was “Where’s Kiddo?”

When neither man said anything, he stormed from the room and down the hall, throwing each door open as he went and occasionally calling out for the boy. Natasha and Clint, wide eyed, began their assessment and investigation of the scene while Steve awkwardly tried to think of a way to calm Bucky.

Tony had no words for the mode Bucky was in when he returned; he was beyond angry or worried or protective, he was a furious storm—worse than any Tony had seen Thor brew up.

“Where is my kid?” It was growled, roared out from deep within his being. His shoulders were tense and hunched, his fists clenched and jaw too. His eyes were a burning fire, promising a slow death to those who might have harmed his charge. “Where is my kid?”

“Bucky—” Steve tried.

“No, something obviously happened here and I need to know where my kid is!”

“There’s blood,” Natasha mumbled from where she was kneeling by the window.

Before Bucky could punch someone (namely Tony), Bruce spoke up. “Already tested; it’s not Kiddo’s.”

Steve turned from his partner. “Wait; if you have his blood on file… Tony; you said you couldn’t find him in the database but being able to do a DNA match would mean you could find out his identity…”

So he was found out; might as well come clean. Not like Bucky was going to spare him anyway. “Alright,” he sighed, slapping his knee. “Why don’t you all gather round for the campfire story…”

“Tony,” Bucky growled.

Another sigh; then the story started. From the charity event (or whatever that large gala Pepper had him attend was) where he had first met the kid, to the boy’s death, to him showing up with Bucky; even Tony’s reasoning for keeping his identity a secret, though a weak excuse (“maybe we could give him a happier life than his guardian did”). All in all, however, he gave few details or names and this was not satisfactory for his audience.

“Okay, this doesn’t answer who took Kiddo or why or anything; you haven’t explained anything.” Bucky’s growl would terrify any normal Joe off the street.

“Look, this is kinda hard for me to wrap my head around too, okay? So why not give me a break? I’ve been staring at a goddamn ghost for the past six months; I thought I was having a psychotic break!”

“Alright,” Natasha calmly interjected. “You’re right, Tony, that this has been affecting you and we should take that into consideration. However, right now, we need to understand that a severely mentally handicapped kid has been kidnapped from one of the highest tech security tower in New York; a kid that we’ve all grown rather attached to, am I right?”

Everyone nodded, though Bucky’s glare hadn’t wavered from Tony.

“Tony,” Clint spoke; his gaze was as even as Bucky’s. “Enough evading. Tell us what you know; every little detail.”

A hand ran through ruffled hair. “For god’s sake… Alright, I believe the kid was taken by Ra’s al Ghul; Ra’s had dealings with his guardian. I don’t know all the details, but it was deeper than one rich man against another.”

“Identities, Tony,” Bucky ordered. “His guardian; himself. I can’t believe you’d keep this from us.”

Steve set a hand on Bucky’s back to try and calm him down; he thought he could understand why Bucky was so upset. To have an identity be kept from oneself, Bucky was projecting his own experiences onto Kiddo; circumstances were different, but still. Identity was important to Bucky.

After a short pause, Tony spoke: “His guardian was—is, I suppose—Bruce Wayne; Kiddo is Jason Todd.”

-X-

Ra’s was easy to get ahold of; he left a calling card and answered the phone quickly. He said that Jason was one of his mistakes, that it was partially his fault the boy had been harmed and that he was merrily righting his mistake. Bucky wasn’t present for the phone call and Steve figured that was a good thing because Bucky wouldn’t have taken his kid being called a mistake lightly—Steve certainly didn’t appreciate it. The boy had grown on him and, yes, he was rather worried.

Tony had calmly asked for the boy’s return and Ra’s had responded that “He will be returned when he is well again” before promptly hanging up; further calls were ignored. Bucky and Natasha and Clint dropped their lives to search for where Ra’s might be hiding Jason; they spread out around the States and Natasha even went abroad to try and locate the boy.

Two months in and, much to Bucky’s dismay, not a solitary sighting of his boy. Though they didn’t stop their search for him, SHIELD insisted they return to their assigned missions or fear repercussions. So they did, though Bucky hardly slept and would never give up on finding the child who saved him.

-X-

Jason never really lost feeling or thought; yes, he lost some motor functions and consciousness, but he could still feel and think. Albeit like a child…

He felt safety in that man’s presence, he felt fear when he had nightmares he could never remember, he felt joy and contentment when he wore that Batman hoodie, he felt confusion when he was suddenly taken by strange people in strange outfits away from _that man’s_ house, and he felt pain when he was dumped in the Pit.

He felt anger when he came out; anger at everything, anger at the world, anger at Bruce and at Joker and at Bucky and at Tony _because he remembered Tony_ and he could’ve helped. He felt anger at Ra’s and the Pit and Talia for being so gentle with him after the “ordeal”.

He felt anger at himself; for feeling so weak he just wanted to shut himself away forever. For not staying dead. Above all, he hated himself for wanting to go back to Bucky and not Bruce; Bruce, who took him into his home when Jason was just trying to survive. Bruce, who gave him a warm bed and clothes on his back and food in his belly and a purpose to live. Bruce, who skipped patrol to watch movies with him when he was sick.

A while after the Pit (what was time? Jason didn’t care), after recovering memory and how to move and speak, Ra’s bustled him onto a private plane with a backpack of clothes and wads of cash and a hug from Talia; with that he was dismissed.

Similarly to how he was dismissed as Bruce’s son, he soon found out; once the plane touched down in an airstrip between Avengers Tower and the bridge to Gotham, Jason had debated which to go to. He figured Gotham would be his best bet; after all, who knew if the Avengers only cared for him out of pity? Bruce hadn’t, had he?

So Jason’s first morbid visit was his own grave, in which the stone read _“A good soldier, a loyal son”_. Easily laid to rest with a few short, clipped words; so be it. Batman was never that sentimental, anyways, and there was already a new Robin so shortly after his death. Jason had turned from his grave and returned to New York on unsteady legs. Sure, Bruce hadn’t killed the Joker but…there had been that…hope…that he did actually care…

Apparently not.

He felt like it was muscle memory from watching the others, inputting the right codes in the tower—in the doors and the elevator—to lead him to stand before Captain America’s front door. He didn’t know why he felt better already, but he did and he wanted to feel even more so. So he lifted his fist and lightly tapped on the door.

Immediately, there was a call from inside—“Coming!”—and there was the click of a lock and the door swung open; and there stood the man with the metal arm.

“Kiddo!” He cried out, flinging the door open more and assessing the boy in front of him, wide eyes roving over every inch. For injuries or something else, Jason couldn’t be sure.

Either way, Jason shifted and stuffed his hands further in his jean pockets. “Um, it’s Jason…” He coughed. “Can I…can I come in?”

Before the words had even left his mouth, he found himself crushed to Bucky’s chest, arms wrapped tight about his shoulders; warmth spread through Jason and something stung at his eyes.

“God, Jason,” and Bucky sounds hurt and choked up. “I looked for you and I thought…that I’d never see you again. That it’d be my fault that you died…” He pulled away suddenly and fixed Jason with a glare. “Don’t run off!”

Jason opened his mouth to defend himself but was cut off.

“I mean it, Jason; don’t run off, okay? Come on, come in; are you hungry?”

Bucky kept rambling; it reminded Jason of Bruce, of Alfred, caring for him when he’d first arrived at the mansion a dirty street rat. He kind of felt like one right now, a little more broken, feeling betrayed and tossed around and when Bucky turned to coax him further into the apartment, he found Jason crying in the doorway. Two long strides and the boy was being held together by Bucky and what little sanity the Pit had allowed him.

Bucky had been healed, mostly; Jason, however, had not. Not yet, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter so much... I wanted it to be more dramatic, a bit more flare, but I feel like it fell flat...


	3. An End? A Rebirth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, guess what?? IT'S FINISHED, YAYY!!! Hope you liked, if you have suggestions for stucky&jason please let me know!
> 
> Also, no, I do not hate Bruce/Batman; this is from Jason's pov, who is hurting very much at this point in time and may even be a little skewed because of the Pit. This is also from Bucky's pov, who honestly at the moment only cares about Jason and making sure he's ok; so if Jason hates someone, Bucky is gonna follow... Please don't kill me for the opinions or words expressed in the following fic

Bucky didn’t rattle the doorknob; he adamantly refused to touch it and continued down the hall to where he heard voices. It had been a few weeks since Jason’s return and Bucky was slowly getting used to the boy’s wariness; and he knew that Jason didn’t like people trying to get into his room, as was explicitly stated when Bucky had tried to wake him up the first morning. The door had been locked and Bucky had picked the lock and entered, not really thinking anything of the locked door as he had broken many a lock before when Kiddo had taken too long in the shower; however, this particular morning’s entrance had been met with a body slam to the wall and a kitchen knife to Bucky’s throat that then resulted in Jason being the one pinned and Bucky with the knife.

After that little scenario, Bucky hadn’t touched Jason’s door again and Jason had hardly spoken to him for a good four days; however, they eventually came to a tacit arrangement. Bucky never touched Jason’s door again and Jason allowed Bucky to make him (and Steve) breakfast or check in on him before going to bed at night.

So Bucky refused the urge to check in on the kid (he could hear the soft breathing through the door of someone asleep anyway; heightened hearing, after all) and instead walked further towards the living room, towards the strange voices that were growing louder and louder. The scene he came upon was strange for so early in the morning; to start with, there were two strangers stand near the front door. Both wore immaculate suits, but the sleeves couldn’t hide the muscles the pair sported; they obviously worked out frequently. Steve was perched on the couch armrest in the pair of gray sweats and white shirt that he had gone to sleep in; Tony stood by the pair by the door, casual jeans and black T, trying to calm down their angry visitors.

“I want to see him now!”

“Bruce, look, it’s early; he’s probably still sleeping.”

“I don’t give a damn; last night I thought he was dead!”

Steve looked up sharply from where he had been rubbing at his eyes frustratedly, eyes locking on Bucky. “Bucky; morning….”

Bucky and Steve had had a talk with Tony; that Bruce Wayne should be informed of Jason’s presence at their home. Jason had nonchalantly told them to, quote, “do whatever you fucking want”, but if Tony would be honest he’d say the kid was angry. Still, Tony had made the phone call the night before and here was Bruce Wayne in all his glory.

Bucky breezed pass the group towards the kitchen. “Jason’s sleeping; he should be up in an hour”—it was only 7:15, after all—“so until then I’m going to have some coffee; anyone want a cup?”

The young boy—Theo or something like that—who was Bruce’s ward tentatively slipped away from Bruce’s side and followed Bucky into the kitchen. Bucky set five cups down on the counter and began scooping coffee grounds into the coffee maker; he was quiet, tense, but Theo didn’t seem to mind.

“So, urm…” The boy cleared his throat and when he spoke again his voice didn’t squeak again. “I’m Timothy.”

Oh, not Theo then.

“Bucky.” Was the gruff response.

“P-pleasure meeting you, Bucky.”

A pause; Bucky glared at the stream of dark liquid slowly filling the pot. He was frustrated as he hadn’t been expecting the Waynes so quickly; and he felt extremely protective of Jason, especially when Bruce’s arguing had only quieted to a low rumble. The walls weren’t exactly soundproof yet…

“Um, so…how did you meet Jason?”

The ex-asset sighed and scrubbed at his face. “I’m sure your dad’ll want to know, so we’ll wait ‘til coffee’s done; what about you? Bruce always adopt little kiddies from the street?”

Tim blushed, though Bucky had yet to face him and didn’t see. “Um, no; not exactly. My parents died, were friends of Bruce, so he took me in; with Dick—um, Richard, Bruce’s first ward—his parents were murdered and Bruce was a witness to it all so he… And Jason… Well, I actually don’t know. No one talks abo…ut him…”

And Bucky stiffened further; to be forgotten like that, tossed aside and never mentioned again. In a way, that was a fear Bucky had. A fear he was sure every human being held. He didn’t bother for the coffee to finish and filled the cups, making his and Steve’s with sugar and a bit of milk; he let Timmy fix his and Bruce’s and left Tony’s black, like he liked it. And so the pair marched into the living room, each carrying their assigned cups.

No sooner had they been distributed than Bruce spoke, eyesbrows still creased and eyes burning. “I want to know everything; from the beginning.”

So Bucky told everything; from finding the boy on the backroad, hurt and torn and bleeding, to returning to Steve with Jason in tow. From reading to Kiddo, to going on missions with Steve watching over the boy; from the scene in the restaurant, to Jason going missing, to Jason returning.

“So Ra’s had something to do with this, huh.” Bruce looked very, very angry; murderous almost. “So is this permanent? Or is there a timeframe where J…Jason will be here?”

That’s when Tony piped up, staring forlornly into his empty coffee cup. “All his readings and tests we’ve run show that he’s genuine; he’s human, 100%, no deterioration.”

“Well,” Bruce spoke again. “We can’t be too sure; I’d like to have my own people look at Jason. Check over him, make sure he isn’t…damaged. The Lazarus Pit is always harmful; I’ve seen mentally healthy men come out of there like savage animals.”

Bucky looked up sharply and even Steve tensed besides him, surprisingly speaking before Bucky can. “Jason is _not_ a savage animal.”

Bruce blinks and seems to realize what he has said; the five men sit there in awkward silence until they hear the quiet click of a lock and the creek of a door opening down the hall. Timothy sets his coffee cup down, besides Bruce’s, on the coffee table and wipes his hands religiously across his dress pants; Bruce doesn’t turn to view the hallway, instead relying on his hearing to track the newcomer’s movements.

Jason doesn’t come very far down the hallway; he was dressed in dark sweat pants and was sunken into his batman sweater from Good Will, his arms wrapped around his ribs. He stopped within the hallway doorway, within the shadows, eyes wide and staring at the back of Bruce’s head. He didn’t say anything, and no one else did either; if Steve would guess, he’d say everyone were holding their breath.

Slowly, finally, Bruce turned in his chair; his face was a cool mask, calm and composed; Bucky wanted to sock him in the face, the emotionless jerk.

“Hello, Jason.”

And Jason’s face morphed from cautious shock to the most hateful glare he could muster. “What do you want?” He spat.

Bucky and Steve set their cups down in unison, both preparing themselves to step in if need be; they had no qualms in throwing this billionaire out if he distressed Jason any further. Tony had retreated to a corner to watch the scene unfold, and Tim smartly kept his mouth shut.

“I’m here to bring you home, Ja—son.”

The laugh was biting; Jason threw his head back and laughed loudly. He stopped with a snarl. “Don’t see what you need me for; you’ve got someone else in the pixie boots now, pops!” There was no love in the endearment.

“Jason—”

“’Sides, it was never home; you and _Golden Boy_ always arguing. You ignored me except when I screwed up on patrol to tell me what a huge fuck up I was and how _disappointed_ you were!”

“Jason!”

“No wonder you never killed the Joker; you wanted me gone! You probably threw a celebration when I died!”

“Jason!!” Bruce was standing now and even Steve flinched some at his tone of voice, at how loud he had yelled. Jason effectively clicked his jaw shut, taking a step back. Bruce stood tall, shoulders pulled back in what Tim called “the Batman posture”, staring down at his son in the shadows. “We’re going home and figuring this all out; do you understand me?”

Bucky understood what the man was doing; intimidation tactics. Making himself appear taller, puffing his chest out, looking _down_ upon Bucky’s charge, using a tone of voice that broached no argument. Bucky recognized it from Hydra goons; Steve recognized it from bullies in back alleys. Both were up and across the room in an instance. Steve set himself between Bruce and Jason while Bucky watched Jason closely, just a few steps from him; he didn’t want to crowd the boy, but he wanted to usher the child—wide eyed, still defiant, but obviously shaken—away from the threatening man in his living room.

“Look, Mister Wayne, let’s all calm down and take a seat okay? We’ll talk this through in a calm manner and figure everything out, yeah?” Steve placated.

“Hell no!” Jason shot out. “I don’t need to talk anything through; Bruce, you’re a grade A jerkoff. Go home with your perfect little Robin and keep sending Joker back to Arkham so he can break out and cripple or murder more people. Keep filling graveyards; it’s what you’re good at. Lord knows you’re a terrible ‘father’.” And with that, Jason turned and hurried down the hall; before he slammed his door shut, he called out “Fuck you!”

Timothy jumped at the loud noise, letting out a quiet squeak. Bucky kept his hands firmly fisted at his side; _I will not punch the man in my living room, I will not punch the ‘grade A jerkoff’ in my living room_.

“Steve,” Bucky growled out. “See our guest out.” And with that, the ex-asset scooped up the dirty cups and retreated to the kitchen to blow off steam.

Steve, however, was not that horrible; he assumed that any father or family would like to reconcile, despite a poor first meeting after years. “Bruce, you and Tim are welcome back later; in a few days. Maybe for dinner; if it’s a scheduled thing maybe he—”

“No,” Bruce muttered, waving a hand at Tim to begin moving for the door. “Thank you though; I can pay you for whatever you might have spent on the boy and I’ll work with social services to find him a…place to stay. Thank you for informing me of him being alive and—”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said. “Are you saying that’s it?”

Bruce nodded; Tim slowly closed his eyes and refused to groan at Bruce’s stubbornness. “He obviously doesn’t want to return ho—to the manor and I will respect his wishes.”

“Then,” Tony spoke up, finally removing himself from his corner. “You’d best also ‘respect’ Bucko and Stevie.”

“We don’t want your money; we don’t want to get rid of Jason.” Steve’s face was stone. “He’s a good kid, a bit stubborn and with some anger issues, but we’re willing to work with him; we care for him, unlike some people, and we’ll gladly go through whatever paperwork to become his guardians.”

For a moment, it was a staring contest; finally Bruce breathed deeply and looked away, took a step for the door. “Then I shall call my lawyers; they’ll contact you shortly. Good day.”

And with that, the Waynes slipped out; perhaps more broken than when they had entered.

-X-

Bucky had spent a good hour and a half cooking breakfast; pancakes and eggs and waffles and oatmeal. Tony had left shortly after Wayne, leaving Steve to sip another cup of coffee and watch his lover work. Flour coated the counters, utensils and pans filling the sink, plates becoming higher and higher with food.

“That—that—jerk!”

Steve hummed; he slipped from his chair at the island to come stand at Bucky’s back, gently run his hands over the tense shoulders, down the muscled arms, back up. He pressed a kiss to Bucky’s neck and felt the man soothe, slump against him.

“Poor Jason,” Steve muttered against Bucky’s shoulder.

“God, can you imagine? At least you fought to bring down Hydra while I was…away; but…”

“We don’t know everything though, Buck; what can a billionaire do against a psychopath?”

“Except he’s not just a billionaire.”

Both turned to find Jason, now sweaterless, standing in the doorway. His eyes were red and puffy and he snuffled at their stares, shrugged.

“First and foremost, he’s Batman.”

(When they tell Tony this later, he considers throwing a party for his suspicions being confirmed)

-X-

Bucky found the sweater, Jason’s _Batman sweater_ , ripped to shreds on the bathroom floor two weeks later. Bucky calmly picks the pieces up and tucks them away at the back of a drawer in his dresser; Jason might have destroyed it in a fit of rage, but it was a part of his life, a part of Bucky’s life, and Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if in a few months, once the dust and steam had settled, Jason would regret what he’d done.

So Bucky had tucked the pieces away because they were memories and he wanted to know exactly which sweater to have Steve order online later; the next day, after finding the ripped sweater, Bucky takes Jason shopping.

“Pick some stuff out, Jay.” Bucky casually looks at a pair of sunglasses while Jason flips through some shirts a few feet away.

“Why are you doin’ all this?”

Bucky doesn’t make eye contact or even glance Jason’s way; he knows what it’s like to be questioning oneself, how it feels even worse when someone else seems to put you under a microscope. You do enough damage to yourself without having to feel someone else’s eyes boring into you. So he keeps his eyes scanning the sunglasses and responds with “Why not?”

Jason’s reply was quick: “’Cause I’m not worth it; just a street kid.”

Bucky nods. “Yeah; so was Steve and me.” Now he does turn to face Jason, settles a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let me tell you something: where you come from does not determine your worth, Jason. What does determine your worth, is what you do and how you treat other people.”

Jason fists his hands. “I want to kill the Joker.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky takes note of an olive green pullover and he tugs it from the rack. “That doesn’t make you a bad person, Jason; he’s not a good person. What do you think about this one?”

The slow grin that spreads over Jason’s lips as he fingers the sweater sleeves was the best thing Bucky had seen in days. “Well, it is my favorite color…”

-X-

When they arrive home, smiling calmly and laughing at a joke Jason had made about “old geezers in the future”, there is another stranger standing in their living room. This one is tall, still dark haired with blue eyes, but lithe like an acrobat and in a pair of jeans and blue shirt; he stares wide eyed at Jason and then tears start to spill over when he reaches out hesitantly, as if to draw the younger boy to himself.

“Jason? Are you really…alive?”

Jason’s breathing is becoming unsteady and Bucky slips the shopping bag from his limp hands, still keeping a wary eye on the man in front of them.

“D…Dick?” Jason croaks.

“Ohmygod…” Dick is crying and he stumbles forward; Jason meets him halfway and Bucky ducks out of the room to let them have their privacy. “I thought you were dead; I thought I’d never get the chance to make things right between us. To tell you that I loved you and that I never hated you, was never angry at you, that I’m so sorry for what you went through.”

Jason pulls away at that. “So sorry Joker’s still out there?”

Dick’s face crumbles. “I hate that…that _monster._ And I wish I could bring myself to end him but I just…” His shoulders slump and he lets out a choked sob.

“I can though; I want to. I dream about it sometimes.”

Jason waits for the horror; the disgust; the anger. Instead Dick pulls him in for another hug, brushes a hand through his hair, and Jason doesn’t admit he’s crying again. “You shouldn’t have to; god, it shouldn’t have to be you. It should have never been you. Not you, Jason, not my little brother…”

They stand there for a while, enjoying the reality of second chances.

-X-

Jason insists Dick sleeps in his room for the night and Steve lets their visitor borrow some sleepwear even though the boy has a duffle bag of his own.

In the dark of Jason’s room, Dick forgoes the pallet on the floor to curl around his little brother and listen to his whispers; it’s always been easier for Jason to be honest in the dark, when no one can see his face, can call him out. So Jason talks and Dick brushes a finger against the strong pulse in the other boy’s wrist.

“I don’t hate him, I swear, I just don’t understand; did he have to just walk away? Did he even care? He didn’t, did he? I don’t know, I’d like to think he did.”

“He did, Jay—he does.” Dick murmurs into the auburn hair tucked beneath his chin; he won’t share his own anger at Bruce for not informing him of Jason’s presence three weeks ago. This isn’t about Dick; this is about Jason right now.

“So why? _“A good soldier, a loyal son”,_ is that all I get before he replaces me?”

“He didn’t replace you, Jason; you should’ve seen him, he was so violent and unhinged after your…” Dick pulls him closer, as if that was possible. “I was too, god I missed so much of your life because of my stupid rivalry with Bruce. But you’re here now, Jason; you’re here and if you’d let me I’d like to make it up to you.”

Jason snorts, but it’s not an angry one; it’s amused. “This is a start,” he hums; he can’t hold a grudge against the sunshine that Dick exudes. “A good start.”

It’s the best night’s sleep Jason has had in a long time; it’s the happiest Dick has been in a long time.

-X-

Dick visits frequently after that, so much so that that Bucky just hands him a key on the third day that Dick has come and gone five times within three hours.

“You’re good for him,” Bucky says. “I haven’t seen him smile this much since I met him.”

It’s a few more days after that that they all meet up at the courthouse a few hours drive away; Wayne’s lawyers and the ones Tony had provided for the custody exchange had finally set a date that the judge was available on. Dick sits beside Jason, who sits beside Bucky and Steve and, surprisingly, Tony, behind their lawyers; Bruce and Alfred and Tim sit on the other side of the courtroom, behind their own lawyers.

Dick keeps an arm wrapped tight around Jason’s tense shoulders; Bucky resolutely does not look at the man in a crisp suit across the aisle from them, the man who keeps sending deep glances at _Bucky’s kid._

“Mister Turner, what are the conditions laid down by Mister Bruce Wayne,” the judge, a young woman with dark red hair that reminds Steve of Natasha, steeples her hands and watches Jason closely.

Turner stands and smooths his jacket. “Thank you, your honor; the only conditions Mister Wayne has insisted on are that the boy is taken care of when it comes to necessities—food, clothes, shelter—and that the custody is joint.”

At that Jason perks up; he sends a confused look at Dick who shrugs, just as confused as Jason. As far as anyone was concerned, Bruce was handing Jason over to the Avengers.

Honorable Mara widens her eyes. “Really? That’s it? Visitation rights should be outlined, Mister Turner.”

“Visitation rights, your honor, are to be on the young Jason Todd’s terms; in other words, your honor—”

“Ughh,” she threw her head against the back of her seat. “Drop the ‘your honor’s, goodness! Make me feel old, why dontcha? Just get on with your speech, Mister Turner.”

“Oh, uh, yes, your—yes. Um, in other words, visitation rights would be…um, open ended. Mister Wayne insists that he doesn’t want to force the boy into anything, but that the offer remains if he would like to return to Wayne Manor.”

Jason doesn’t hear the rest of the hearing, only comes around again when Bucky’s arm replaces Dick’s and he’s carefully herded out of the courtroom between Bucky and Dick on either side, Steve a steady mass behind them. Out in the foyer, Alfred separates from the Wayne huddle being accosted by reporters. He hesitantly (which is wrong, because Alfred has never once been hesitant and Dick and Jason know it) comes to intercept the group’s path.

“Master Jason, I…” The elderly man’s hands shake when he cups the boy’s cheek and Jason realizes this is the first time he’s seen the butler since his death. “I have missed you, Master Jason.” And then there’s a bag of cookies in his hands and the butler is pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Know that you are always welcome, Master Jason, at any time.” And then the butler regards the couple who is now in charge of his young master. “Thank you, Sir Rogers and Barnes, for caring for the boy; he’s a good child and deserves…better than what Gotham can give.”

But before Alfred can turn and leave, Jason pulls the elderly man into a hug. “Thank you,” he mutters.

Alfred returns the embrace, but the moment is cut short when the reporters catch sight of Jason and his new…’parents’ with cries of “Mister Todd! How did you survive?”, “Where have you been?”, “Captain America, why are you taking on a child?”…

Bucky happily uses his notarm to shelter Jason from the onslaught; he doesn’t cry until they’re back at the tower and he’s safely tucked against Dick’s side, wrapped in a blanket and clutching one of Alfred’s molasses cookies. He cries silently, like he did at his death, and Bucky doesn’t say anything when he kneels before the pair of Robins and brushes both their tears aside.

Hope, Bucky knows, can be a painful emotion; it can also be a liberating one. Normally, it takes some time to realize hope is liberating.

-X-

In the following months, things settle down. Jason stops glaring at everything and everyone, stops sitting quietly at breakfast; he even unlocks his bedroom door, though Bucky waits for the boy’s explicit permission to check on him in the mornings. He chats with Steve and teaches Bucky all the different apps he can download on his smartphone (Snapchat is Bucky’s favorite, right next to Instagram; Jason hisses “hipster” and then childishly sticks his tongue out).

Their routine is simple; in the morning, Steve and Bucky are up before the crack of dawn. Steve goes to the communal gym for his morning workout with Natasha (occasionally Clint joins them but he’s not a morning person). Bucky prepares for the day, starting with a large mug of coffee and his hair tied back in a bun. By the time Steve returns and showers, Bucky has finished breakfast and Jason has stumbled from his room, rubbing at his eyes sleepily. They eat in the company of each other, content, and Jason usually starts blabbing about six bites into his food.

From there, it all depends; if it’s a school day, Jason might fight Steve on having to go (and Bucky might cave in and let the kid stay home) or he’ll go without much argument. If it’s not a school day, they might go for a day on the city—shopping, movies, eating out at restaurants. Jason always makes a point to ask for a pet hamster whenever they pass a pet shop; Bucky will respond, one hand in the back pocket of Steve’s jeans, “We are not housing a rat in my house” to which Jason responds with a frustrated pout and indignant cry of “It’s not a rat!”.

At night, they’ll crowd around the television for a few shows, maybe a movie that’s on, or set out a board or card game. Steve cooks dinner, always, and Jason always moans and says around a mouthful “Thi’ ith’o ‘ood”. Some nights, they’ll go to bed at a reasonable hour; other nights they don’t. Some nights, they don’t go to bed at all for fear of visions they’d rather forget.

Overall, however, they’ve forged a sort of family dynamic where each is equal and respected. Overall, they are happy.

-X-

“Titanium core; what do you think?”

Jason weighs the small motor in his hand. “Meh, a bit heavy.”

Bruce points his pen accusatorially at Tony’s offended face. “I told you; we need to get some of that new metal they found in New Zealand.”

“But these have always used a titanium core.”

Jason sets the machine down. “But you’re trying to improve it, not stick to tradition.”

The doors hiss open and Jason peeks over his shoulder to see Spectral and Captain America come into the lab, shortly followed by Hawkeye. “You guys headed out?”

Spectral, Bucky, ruffles his hair. “Yeah, came down because apparently Bruce has some new arrows for Clint.”

Jason nods; he continues to tinker with some of the pieces on the tabletop before him. Bucky hasn’t removed his hand where it came to rest at the nape of his neck; he can tell his kid is tense, bothered by something, but doesn’t want to talk about it (yet) so Bucky waits. Eventually, before the trio turn to leave on their short SHIELD mission, Jason turns and adjusts Bucky’s chest piece, a thick but breathable piece of pale blue armor that crawls down his right flesh arm for complete protection.

“Be safe…” Jason mutters and waves them out and Bucky thinks he understands.

When they come back late the following night, with a job well done and a pat on the back from their teammates, Steve and Bucky enter their apartment to find their charge fast asleep on the couch. They quietly return their armor to the specialized slot in the closet, specifically designed by Tony to store weapons and armor, and shower together before deciding to turn in for the night. Bucky goes to retrieve Jason and comes into the master bedroom carrying the half-awake boy.

They lay him in the middle, sandwiched between them, and that’s how they wake up in the morning; Jason is still fast asleep pillowed on Bucky’s arm. Bucky toes Steve to get his attention before he leaves the bed.

“I think we need to prepare for him…joining us out there.”

Steve just nods. “Yeah; I mean, I figured someday it would happen, with his background as Robin.”

“Do you think he’s ready?” Bucky whispers; Jason whines at their voices intruding his dreamland and shifts but Bucky quiets him by tugging the blankets further up.

Steve chuckles lightly. “I think the question is, are you?”

With that Steve gets up for his appointment in the gym with Natasha, leaving Bucky to find the answer. Is he ready?

-X-

It’s a few nights later that Jason brings it up over supper during a commercial break in Jeopardy. “I want to start vigilante work again.”

Bucky doesn’t argue, doesn’t question, merrily says “We’ll see if Natasha can start you on a workout routine, yeah? Then go from there.”

And Jason grins so big Bucky hopes he isn’t making a mistake.

Steve asks “Have you thought of a name to go by?”

At this, Jason picks at his nails. “I was thinking Red Hood.”

Bucky has read up enough on Joker to know where that name comes from. “No,” is his immediate response.

There’s a tense silence that Steve quietly breaks. “What about Phoenix? It’s got a nice ring to it.”

And Jason’s grin is even bigger than before; “Stick with the bird thing, I like it.”

Bucky hopes this doesn’t end in a fiery explosion.

-X-

Jason is started on a workout routine and shortly after begins working with Tony on making a suit; it turns out to look like a biker outfit, except the body armor over his chest sports a splattered design that looks vaguely like a bird on fire. He still wants a “red hood” and after a short fight, and a calm discussion from Steve, Bucky relents; he figures the helmet is a symbol of what Jason went through to get here, something like how Bucky feels about his notarm.

Dick seems excited about this step, if apprehensive about the helmet as well.

“It’s…”

“Morbid?” Bucky mutters as they watch Jason spar in full getup with Clint.

Dick nods, but can’t help a grin as Jason does a perfect roundhouse kick. “Yeah; he’s doing ok, right?”

Bucky nods; a few moments later, he sticks out the metal arm for Dick to examine. “Tony and Bruce offered to make a new one. I don’t want a new one, ‘least not yet, because this reminds me where I’ve been and where I’m headed. I think the helmet might be the same thing with Jason; yeah, it’s morbid, but I think…at the moment…it’s necessary for him to wear a visible scar for people to see.”

The ones hidden beneath their clothing don’t do much of anything—everyone has scars, after all, but to hold onto a specific, personalized memory, however morbid and terrible it is, is something they can lay claim to.

Dick nods in understanding; when Jason and Clint take a break, Dick makes a point to comment on the helmet, not that he likes it because that would be insensitive, but that it matches the bird on Jason’s chest. It makes the kid grin and Bucky thinks _this can’t be so bad_.

-X-

Admittedly, the mission only goes south when the bomb goes off. It was supposed to be simple, shadow the shipment across town, no big deal, except now there’s a building on fire and a car just exploded down the way and there are people in clown masks hijacking the truck.

And Phoenix has gone completely unresponsive.

It’s not his first mission out in the field, actually the ninth, so Bucky doesn’t feel the crushing fear that Fury’ll pull the kid for being inexperienced and a liability; but Bucky isn’t happy that _his kid_ is now holding the terrorists’ interest.

Especially when Jason screams.

Bucky doesn’t know much about what happened with Jason, before, but he knows it included a clown looking jerk and death. So he abandons his post, ordering Hawkeye to take over and for Fury to shove his eyepatch where the sun doesn’t shine when the director orders Spectral to “stand down”.

Within minutes, the two goons who were trying to drag Jason away are no longer a threat, having stopped breathing exactly two seconds before Jason is scooped from the rubbled ground (and seriously why did Bucky let him ride with the shipment? That was the most dangerous position, if anything Spectral himself should have taken it) and whisked several streets over.

He doesn’t stop shaking, even when Bucky strips the biker jacket and helmet.

“Jason, bud, it’s ok; you’re ok, you’re here in New York with me and Steve is slamming some jerk’s head in a few blocks over, come on, bud…” He swipes a hand through the sweat slicked hair and presses a kiss to a too warm forehead. “Come back to us…”

He only comes back hours later, when Bucky is done having a shouting match with Fury and Steve has punched a hole in every wall he comes across, when Natasha has made chamomile tea for everyone and Clint helps Steve make the biggest pillow and blanket pile in the middle of their living room. (The two leave shortly after, ensuring the couple and Jason have everything they need.) Jason comes back hours later when he’s cradled against the strong chest of his savior, to the smell and warmth of a cup of tea Steve coaxes him to drink, in the middle of a cushioned fort.

“G-god,” he stutters and shifts restlessly; he doesn’t want to blink because he’ll see that face again, but if he doesn’t then he’ll start crying so he blinks as quick as he can and, with shaky hands, takes the cup from Steve. “’M sorry I f’cked up… ‘M a mess.”

Steve shushes him. “You didn’t fuck up.”

“And you aren’t a mess, Jason.” Bucky mutters, a kiss pressed against Jason’s crown.

When the shakes come and Jason can’t hold back the tears anymore, Bucky and Steve are there. They soothe him with gentle, familial touches, soft words, and gentle kisses to his forehead; warm actions from men who only hours before coldly wrecked an entire terrorist group to protect their kid. When the attack stops, and Jason begins to doze in their embrace he digs deep and finds the strength to speak.

“I ne’r told you…how it all went down, did I?” he mutters; he feels Steve run a hand over his ribs, reaching across Bucky. They’re all in a three way cuddle, with Bucky against Steve and Jason against Bucky. “F’cked up, trusted the wrong person, go caught…”

He recalls the crowbar and the laughter and the horror of a darkened warehouse, only lighted by the paint on a clown’s face as he grinned at Jason’s blood.

“I didn’t cry out ‘cause if Bruce was comin’…I didn’t want to be weak…and disappoint.”

He recalls crawling to the door across the warehouse, a collapsed lung and bruised and broken ribs, torn skin and a blackened eye. He recalls numbers in the dark when the door was locked shut and the realization that _Bruce wouldn’t be coming_. He recalls a bright light, a loud noise, and painpain _pain_ until nothing and then darkness and dirt and a man with a gruff voice hustling him, not unkindly, into a car on a backroad and laying a biker jacket over him.

It doesn’t take much of Bucky’s rocking to ease Jason to sleep, or for Steve and Bucky to follow, and the next day it’s Steve who delivers breakfast in bed (or, the pile of bedding equivalent). Jason smiles and laughs and blabs all through breakfast, though the dark circles under his eyes belays his exhaustion, and their day is spent in a lazy manner of trying to mend after a bad day.

That night, when dark thoughts drive Jason to their bed, they let him in and he curls around Bucky’s notarm and lets Steve sing softly against his shoulder, arm slung over his waist, until all that’s left is warmth and kindness and hope that everything will be ok.

In the morning, when he wakes to his pseudo parents having a pancake batter fight in the kitchen, everything is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imma cry (&yes, there will be a "fix-it fic" for Jason and Bruce..........muchmuchmuch later on though.......)


End file.
